Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Michael woke to the sharp metallic crash of something hitting the living room floor.
His eyes flew open, but for several seconds he remained perfectly still beneath the duvet, his body caught between sleep and alarm. His heart was already pounding hard, while the warmth of sleep clung stubbornly to his skin.

His cheek was pressed into the pillow.
One arm lay trapped beneath the sheets, numb from the shoulder down, and his hair had fallen across his forehead in tangled locks.
The room smelled faintly of cotton, detergent, and the stale warmth of a closed bedroom.
Somewhere outside, a car passed along the wet street.

Then came another clang, this one was quieter but closer.

Michael sat bolt upright and touched his face, as if checking that he was awake. “What the fuck?”
His voice sounded rough and unfamiliar in the darkness.

The bedroom door stood half-open.
Beyond it, the hallway was dark and silent, the narrow strip of living room light at the far end barely visible beneath the shadows.
Michael held his breath and, for a moment, there was nothing.

Then came another sound: a small scrape, slow and deliberate, followed by the soft drag of something across the wooden floor.

Michael threw off the duvet.
Cold air rushed over his arms, raising goosebumps along his skin.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, wincing as the parquet chilled his bare feet.
His sleep-heavy body felt slow and uncoordinated, but adrenaline had already begun to sharpen his senses.
He crossed the room carefully, blinking the last fragments of sleep from his eyes.

He expected a cat, though he didn’t own one. Maybe the wind had knocked something off one of the shelves again. He always forgot to close the window, especially when he was exhausted, and the apartment had a habit of making strange noises whenever the night air moved through it.
In the worst-case scenario, maybe it was a burglar.

Instead, he found a child.

The boy stood barefoot in the middle of his living room, his toes curling slightly against the floor as if he were trying to keep his balance.
He wore a green-and-white striped shirt, slightly rumpled from sleep, and a pair of trousers covered in tiny racing cars. Red, blue, and yellow shapes flashed across the fabric whenever he moved.
His expression was completely calm, almost unsettlingly so.

His hair stuck up in soft, uneven tufts.
His cheeks were still round with childhood, and there was a faint crease on one side of his face, as though he had recently been sleeping.

In both hands, he held Michael’s Champions League Man of the Match trophy.
The metal caught the weak grey light coming through the curtains.
Its polished surface reflected the room in warped fragments: the dark sofa, the pale walls, the boy’s small hands, and Michael’s stunned face in the background.
Michael stopped so abruptly that his heel squeaked against the floor.

The child turned the trophy slightly.
The base brushed against his trousers, and the metal gave a faint, delicate glint in his hands.
Michael stared, the child stared back.

For a moment, the apartment seemed to hold its breath around them.
The refrigerator hummed softly in the kitchen, the clock ticked steadily on the wall, and outside, a car rumbled down the street, its engine fading slowly into the distance.

Michael opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He blinked once.
The boy looked down at the trophy again, running one finger along its polished edge. His fingertip left a faint streak in the thin layer of dust near the base.

Michael slowly stepped forward. “Put that down.”
The child didn’t move.
Michael raised his eyebrows and pointed at the trophy. “That is mine.”
The boy looked at him, his voice sweet and matter-of-fact. “I know.”

He returned his attention to the trophy, his eyes followed the reflection with quiet fascination.
Michael stared at him for another three seconds.

Then something in the boy’s face began to settle into place.
The round cheeks, the dark, steady eyes. The straight nose, the unruly hair, the shape of his mouth.

Michael’s expression changed. “No.”
The child looked up.
Michael took another step closer. “No, no, no.”

He crouched down, the cold floor pressing against his feet, while the boy tilted his head.
From this distance, the resemblance was impossible to ignore.
It wasn’t merely similar.
It was exact, only smaller and softer, untouched by years of training, travel, pressure, and exhaustion.

Michael studied him properly now: the striped shirt, the ridiculous trousers covered in tiny cars, the bare feet, the faint mark beneath his left eye.
His face—or rather, Michael’s face—softened and shrunk by seven years.

He went completely still. “Oh my God.”
The child shrugged.
Michael pointed at him. “You’re me.”
The boy looked at him as if Michael had just announced that the sky was blue. “Glad you caught up.”
Michael’s jaw dropped. “You’re seven-year-old me. How is this even possible? Why are you here?!”
Another shrug. “I don’t know.”

The boy’s voice was calm, almost bored.
His fingers tightened around the trophy, making the metal creak faintly.
He seemed far more interested in the object than in the impossible situation surrounding him.

Michael dragged both hands through his locks. “No. No, no, no. This is not happening.”
The little boy looked at him. “Are you famous?”
Michael stopped. “What?”
“Are you famous?”
Michael stared at his younger self. “Apparently.”
The boy nodded thoughtfully. “Cool.”

Michael looked toward the ceiling.
The wall was pale, and a thin crack ran from the corner above the window toward the centre of the room. He should have fixed it ages ago.

He turned back abruptly. “Do you understand that you’re in Germany?”
The child nodded. “Okay.”
“Do you understand that this is my apartment?”
“Yes.”
“Do you understand that I am you, but older?”
“Yes.”

Michael waited for some sign of fear, confusion, or disbelief.
The boy only shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His bare toes flexed against the floor, and the trophy remained tucked securely against his chest.

“Why are you not freaking out?!” Michael asked.

The boy looked around the apartment at the tall windows, the dark sofa, the framed photographs on the walls, and the shelves crowded with trophies and football memorabilia.
His gaze paused on a photograph of Michael lifting a cup beneath a shower of silver confetti.
Then he looked back at Michael.

“I’ve seen weirder things.”
Michael’s eyes widened. “You are seven.”
“Yeah.”
“You shouldn’t be able to say that.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re seven!”
The boy shrugged again.

Michael inhaled slowly through his nose.
The air felt cold in his lungs as he tried desperately to recover his usual composure. He straightened his shoulders and forced himself to stand.
Fine.
He was a professional athlete.
He had dealt with pressure: Champions League nights, finals, penalty shootouts, hostile stadiums, thousands of people screaming his name until the sound became physical, vibrating through his ribs.
He had played through injuries, exhaustion, and the suffocating expectations of entire cities.
He could handle this, he could absolutely handle—the little boy casually lifted the trophy.

Michael lunged forward. “Wait!”
The child stopped, his arms suddenly stiffening.
Michael pointed at the trophy, genuine panic tightening his voice. “Careful.”
The boy looked down at it. “Why it’s so heavy?”
“Because it’s important.”

The child considered this, his small fingers shifting around the cool metal.
The trophy wobbled slightly, and Michael’s stomach lurched.
Then the boy held it out toward him.

Michael took it with both hands, cradling it as carefully as if it were a newborn baby. The trophy was cold against his palms, heavier than it looked.
Its base pressed into his fingers, and for one horrible second he imagined it slipping, striking the floor, and breaking the silence with another catastrophic crash.

“Thank you,” Michael said, his voice strained.
The boy nodded.

Michael carried it back to the shelf and placed it exactly where it had been.
He adjusted it by a few millimetres, then crouched to inspect the base for scratches. Finding none, he ran his thumb over the edge anyway.

When he turned around, the child was already looking at something else.
Michael followed his gaze, and his eyes widened. “No.”
The boy took one step toward it.
“Don’t.”
The child reached out.
Michael practically sprinted across the room. “That is a signed jersey.”
The boy looked at him. “Can I touch it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s signed.”
“So?”
Michael stared at him. “Because it’s mine.”

The boy thought about that, his hand hovering inches from the framed shirt.
The jersey hung behind glass, carefully mounted against a dark backing, its signatures preserved beneath the soft reflection of the window. “You’re very protective.”
Michael closed his eyes. He could already feel a headache forming behind them, a dull pressure spreading toward his temples. “I can’t believe this.”

The child wandered toward the sofa, and Michael followed him, suspicious of every movement.
He watched the boy’s hands, his feet, even the direction of his gaze, as though any object in the apartment might become a new emergency.

“Where are you going?”
“Nowhere.”
“You can’t just wander around my house.”

The boy climbed onto the couch, placing one knee on the cushion before hauling himself up. His bare feet sank into the soft fabric, leaving faint marks in the fabric. “I already did.”

Michael shook his head and, very slowly, he sat down opposite him.
The distance between them was only a few feet, but it felt strangely significant.
Mini Michael swung his legs, the tiny cars on his trousers flashing in the morning light. One of the buttons on his shirt was fastened incorrectly, leaving the fabric slightly crooked across his chest.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The apartment felt strangely intimate now.
The silence was no longer empty; it was filled with the soft rustle of fabric, the faint ticking of the clock on the wall and the boy’s quiet breathing.

Mini Michael leaned back against the cushions, perfectly comfortable, as if he hadn’t appeared out of nowhere in the middle of the night.
His eyes moved slowly around the room, taking again in the photographs, the jerseys, the books, and the expensive furniture with the detached curiosity of someone visiting a stranger’s home.

Michael opened his mouth, closed it, and then rubbed both hands over his face.
His palms were warm against his skin, and the faint scent of sleep still clung to him.
A beat passed.

The boy looked around again. “Do we have a dog?”
Michael blinked. “No.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“We should get one.”
Michael stared at him. “You’ve been here for five minutes.”
“Still.”

Michael tried to hold it in, but he failed.
A short, helpless laugh escaped him, rough from sleep, and echoed softly through the living room.
The sound surprised him, it was the first thing about the situation that felt remotely normal.

He looked at the seven-year-old sitting on his sofa, completely unfazed by the fact that he had apparently travelled eighteen years into the future and appeared inside the apartment of his adult self.

Then Michael shook his head. “You know what?”
The boy looked at him. “What?”
“I think I’m going to need a coffee.”
“Can I have hot chocolate?”
Michael stared at him. “At eight in the morning?”

But the child’s eyes were wide and expectant, his voice suddenly unmistakably seven years old.
Beneath the calmness, beneath the strange certainty, he was still a kid who had woken up somewhere unfamiliar and wanted something warm and sweet.

“Of course you can.” Michael sighed.
The boy smiled. “With marshmallows.”
Michael pushed himself to his feet, his knees cracked softly. “You’re still annoying,”
The child grinned. “You’re still me.”
Michael stopped and looked over his shoulder, shaking his head. “Unfortunately.”

Mini Michael only smiled, completely unbothered, as if appearing eighteenth years in the future were merely a minor inconvenience before breakfast.

Michael went into the kitchen, still trying to process the fact that a younger version of himself was sitting in his living room.
The thought was so absurd that it seemed to follow him from room to room, refusing to become any less impossible simply because he had stopped looking directly at it.

The cool floor pressed against his bare feet. Behind him, the little footsteps followed—soft, quick taps against the parquet, uneven in their rhythm.
Michael could hear the boy trying to keep up without running.

He opened the fridge, and a breath of cold air brushed across his face.
The shelves were crowded with bottles, leftovers, fruit, and several containers he had forgotten to label. The light inside the fridge cast a pale glow over the kitchen.

The footsteps stopped behind him, Michael glanced over his shoulder again.
Mini Michael stood in the doorway, watching him with the same serious expression he remembered from old photographs.
His hair was slightly tangled, and one of the sleeves of his striped shirt had ridden up his arm.

Michael closed the fridge and turned toward the kitchen island.
The boy climbed onto one of the stools, gripping the edge of the counter for balance.
The wooden seat creaked beneath him, and his little legs swung above the floor, never quite reaching it.

Michael filled a small metal cup with milk.
The pale liquid tapped softly against the metal before he set it on the stove.
He turned on the heat, and the blue flame flickered beneath it.
Behind him, there was silence—well, for approximately four seconds.

“Do I live here?”
Michael glanced back. “Apparently.”
“Do I have my own room?”
“Of course.”
“Do I have lots of footballs?”
Michael smiled despite himself. “Too many.”
The boy nodded approvingly, as though that was exactly the answer he had been hoping for. “Good.”

The milk began to warm.
A thin skin slowly formed across its surface, Michael added the chocolate powder, watching it dissolve into dark, glossy swirls until the whole mixture turned rich brown.

He poured the hot chocolate into a red mug and placed it in front of the boy.
Steam curled upward, carrying the sweet smell of cocoa through the kitchen.
Mini Michael wrapped both hands around the ceramic, though it was almost too large for him, and leaned forward to inspect the surface.

Then Michael opened the cupboard. “You said marshmallows?”
Mini Michael’s eyes lit up immediately. “Please.”
Michael reached for the bag, the plastic crackled loudly in the quiet kitchen. “How many?”
“Lots.”
“That’s not a number.”
“Ten.”
Michael looked at him. “You’ll become sick.”
“No.”
“You don’t know that.”
Mini Michael narrowed his eyes. “I’m me.”

Michael stared at him for a moment, caught between amusement and disbelief. “You are unbelievably confident for someone who still needs help tying his shoes.”
“I can tie them.”
“Badly.”
“I can do it.”

Michael dropped ten marshmallows into the mug. They landed in the cocoa with a muffled sound, disappearing beneath the surface before bobbing back up.
One caught against the rim, slowly absorbing the chocolate until it began to sag.
Mini Michael looked down at them with absolute satisfaction. “Perfect.”

Michael leaned against the counter, his coffee warming his hands. The heat of the mug seeped slowly into his palms, grounding him in the ordinary details of the morning.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then the boy looked up. “Are you good?”
Michael blinked. “What?”
“At football.”
Michael smiled. “I’m okay.”
“Only okay?.”
Michael laughed softly. “Yeah, I’m good.”
“Really good?”
“I think so.”

The boy studied him, clearly unconvinced.
“Do you play for a big team?”
“I play for Bayern.”
The boy’s eyebrows shot up. “The Bayern Münich?”
“Yes.”
“Wow.”

Michael smiled at the reaction.
He remembered that feeling—the way the name had once seemed impossibly large, something that belonged to television screens and packed stadiums rather than to him.

“Do you win?”
“Sometimes.”
“Did we win the Champions League?”

Michael paused.
The little boy stared at him over the rim of his mug. A faint chocolate stripe had formed above his upper lip, and one marshmallow had stuck to the side of the cup.

Michael took a sip of coffee, letting the heat and bitterness settle on his tongue while he considered how to answer.
The question sounded casual, but he knew how much it mattered to the boy asking it.
“Not yet.”

Mini Michael frowned. He lowered the mug and thought about that for a moment.
Then he made a face. “Lame.”
Michael nearly choked on his coffee. “Excuse me?!”

Mini Michael giggled, the sound bright and sudden in the warm kitchen. “You said it yourself.”
“I did not.”
“You said, ‘Not yet.’”
“It’s difficult, okay?”
“It means you haven’t won it.”
Michael pointed at him. “You haven’t even played a professional match.”
“Still.”
Michael shook his head. “Unbelievable.”

The boy took another sip. “Did we win other things?”
Michael’s expression softened. “The Bundesliga.”
The boy smiled. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
“How many?”
Michael thought for a moment. “A few.”
“Other Cups?”
“German Cups.”
The little boy nodded seriously, as though he were keeping track of every answer. “Okay.”

He looked down at his hot chocolate.
One marshmallow had melted into a white, sticky patch along the rim, and a thin line of chocolate had dripped onto the front of his shirt.
“Did we play in the World Cup?”

Michael’s smile changed.
The question carried a different weight, and the boy seemed to notice the shift in his expression. “Yeah.”

Mini Michael tilted his head, Michael knew exactly where this was going. “We play for France squad.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted to.”
The boy looked genuinely confused. “But Dad is British-Nigerian.”
Michael nodded.
“And Mum is French-Algerian.”
“Exactly.”

Mini Michael placed his mug carefully on the counter. He did it with both hands, concentrating so hard that his tongue briefly pressed against the corner of his mouth.
“So why France?”

Michael looked at him for a long moment. The question seemed to hang between them, small but heavier than it should have been.
He could have answered quickly.
He could have listed practical reasons, spoken about the people who had supported him, or the opportunities that had shaped his career but none of those explanations felt complete.

“Because that’s what felt right to me.”
“But you could have played for England.”
“I could have.”
“Or Nigeria.”
“I could have.”
“Or Algeria.”
“I could have.”
The boy frowned. “Did people ask?”
Michael gave a small laugh. “All the time.”
“What did you say?”

Michael looked down at his coffee.
A thin curl of steam drifted between them and disappeared near the kitchen light.
“I said I was proud of all of them.”

Mini Michael waited, sensing that there was more.
Michael rested one hand against the counter. “But being proud of where your parents come from doesn’t mean you have to choose exactly what they chose.”

The boy was quiet, his feet swung slowly beneath the stool, tapping against the wooden rung.
Michael continued, softer now. “Sometimes you grow up carrying pieces of different places inside you. And eventually, you have to decide which shirt you want to put on.”
Mini Michael looked down at his own striped shirt.
Michael noticed and smiled. “Not literally.”
“Oh.”

For a moment, the boy seemed to consider the idea of choosing a shirt as though it might still be the most important part of the explanation. “So Mum wasn’t angry?”
“No.”
“Dad?”
“No.”
“They were happy?”
“They were proud.”
“Even if you didn’t choose England or Nigeria?”
“Even then.”
The boy nodded slowly. “And Mum didn’t want Algeria?”
Michael smiled. “She wanted me to be happy.”
“That’s nice.”

Mini Michael reached into the mug and pulled out another marshmallow with his fingers.
Michael immediately pointed at him. “Don’t.”
The boy froze, the marshmallow pinched between his fingertips. “What?”
“You’re drinking it.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you only eating the marshmallows?”
“Because they’re there.”
Michael stared at him laughing. “You are going to be a nightmare.”

The boy chewed thoughtfully.
The marshmallow stuck briefly to the roof of his mouth, and he worked it loose with a serious little frown.
Michael watched him sitting on the stool, feet dangling, chocolate gathered at the corner of his mouth, tiny racing cars printed all over his trousers.
The warm scent of cocoa lingered in the air.

He had seen photographs of himself at that age. He remembered fragments: muddy football boots by the door, scraped knees, the smell of grass, his father’s voice calling him inside, his mother laughing from the kitchen.
But photographs had never captured the movement, the impatience, the constant questions.
They had never shown him what it felt like to stand across from that child and realize that the boy had been carrying all of his hopes before he even understood what hope was.

Michael walked around the island and crouched beside him.
He took a napkin and gently wiped the chocolate from the boy’s mouth.
The paper brushed softly against his skin.
Mini Michael let him, sitting perfectly still for once, his eyes remained fixed on Michael’s face.

“Did we make it?”

Michael’s hand stopped.
The question was so simple, so small.
And somehow it landed differently from everything else the boy had asked.

The kitchen suddenly felt very quiet.
Outside the windows, Munich was waking up: distant engines, the faint rush of tyres on the road below. Sunlight spread slowly across the floor, reaching the legs of the island stools and catching on the edge of the red mug.

Michael looked at the little boy who had once been him.
Seven years old, dreaming about football.
Probably dreaming about stadiums without knowing how enormous they would become, or how loud the crowds would sound, or how many people would one day know his name.

Michael crouched lower until they were at eye level. “We did,” he said quietly.
The boy studied his face. “Really?”
Michael smiled. “I promise.”
Mini Michael nodded.

He didn’t ask anything else.
He simply picked up his mug again and took another sip of hot chocolate.
The ceramic clicked softly against his teeth, and he winced at the heat before pretending he hadn’t.

Michael stayed there for a moment, looking at him, then he stood. “Finish your chocolate.”
“I will.”
“And don’t touch my trophies.”
Mini Michael looked completely innocent. “I won’t.”
Michael narrowed his eyes. “You were playing with it.”
“I was looking.”
“You absolutely weren’t.”
Mini Michael shrugged. “Maybe.”
Michael laughed under his breath. “God.”

The little boy looked at him again. “Michael?”
“Yeah?”
“Can I have more marshmallows?”
Michael stared at him. “Absolutely not.”
Mini Michael smiled into his mug, his eyes gleaming over the rim mischievously.
Michael shook his head.

Michael was halfway through his coffee when the question came.

“We have a girlfriend?”

Michael inhaled at exactly that moment.
The coffee went down the wrong way, hot and bitter against his throat, and he immediately started coughing.
Across the kitchen island, Mini Michael looked up from his hot chocolate.

Michael put his coffee down with a soft clink and coughed into his fist. “What?”
“A girlfriend.” Mini Michael took another sip. “I like Rose!”
Michael cleared his throat, though it still burned. “Well—”

He stared into his coffee as if the answer might be written somewhere beneath the dark, trembling surface.

He remembered Rose.
Copper-colored hair, hazel eyes, freckles scattered across her nose like tiny flecks of cinnamon.
She had sat two desks away from him in maths and always tapped her pencil against the table whenever she was thinking, a quick, nervous rhythm that had driven everyone else crazy.
Michael vaguely remembered being absolutely terrified of speaking to her.
He had spent an entire afternoon trying to think of something clever to say, only to end up asking whether she had done the homework.

“Ehm, actually—”
“Or maybe Ashley?”

Michael looked up.
Mini Michael was already waiting, his spoon resting against the rim of his mug.
A little marshmallow clung to the spoon, slowly collapsing into the hot chocolate.

Michael frowned.
Ashley.
Blonde hair, bright blue eyes, that ridiculously kind smile.
She had been nice to him.
Michael could remember sitting next to her during lunch, the smell of her apple juice and the faint rustle of her paper napkin, the way she smiled whenever he said something stupid.
He remembered the little dimple that appeared beside her cheek and the way she always listened to him as though whatever he was saying mattered.

He opened his mouth, closed it.
Mini Michael narrowed his eyes. “You have two?”
“What?!”
“Three?”
“No.”
“Four?”
“Why are you increasing the number?”
“Maybe you’re bad at remembering.”
Michael stared at him.
“So?”

Michael scratched the back of his neck.
His skin felt warm beneath his fingers, and he suddenly became very aware of the refrigerator humming behind him and the faint ticking of the clock above the doorway.

“I have a boyfriend.”

Silence settled between them.
Somewhere outside, a car passed over wet pavement, its tires scratching against the road.
The sound faded slowly, leaving the kitchen strangely quiet.

Mini Michael stopped moving.
His marshmallow was halfway to his mouth, held between the spoon and his lips. Slowly, he lowered it. “A boyfriend?”
“Yeah.”

Michael suddenly found his coffee extremely interesting. Steam rose from the mug, warm against his face, while his fingers curled around the ceramic for something to do.

“Like—a boy?”
Michael looked at him. “Yes.”
“Your boyfriend is a boy.”
“That’s generally how it works.”

Mini Michael stared at him, apparently trying to decide whether Michael was joking. His eyebrows drew together, and his small mouth pressed into a thoughtful line.
Michael waited.

The boy blinked. “Okay.”
Michael’s eyebrows lifted. “Okay?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s it?”
Mini Michael shrugged, the movement making his oversized sweater bunch around his shoulders. One sleeve slipped over his hand, and he pushed it back. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
Michael smiled despite himself. “I don’t know.”

“Is he nice?”
“A lot.”
“Is he funny?”
“Very.”
“Is he good at football?”
Michael smiled. “Amazing.”
“Better than you?”
Michael gave him a look. “Don’t push it.”

Mini Michael grinned, his cheeks rounding as he leaned closer over the island. “What’s his name?”
“Jamal.”
“How old is he?”
“He’s about my age.”
“Does he play for Bayern too?”
“Yeah.”
The boy’s eyes widened. “You have a boyfriend who plays football for Bayern Münich?”
“Yes.”
“That’s so cool.”

Michael laughed softly.
The sound loosened something in his chest, easing the tension that had gathered there.

“What does he look like?”

Michael paused.
For a second, he didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to think very hard, though; Jamal appeared in his mind almost immediately, clear and familiar.

Dark, soft curls that never quite behaved. Big brown eyes, warm and expressive, framed by thick lashes that made every glance seem more intense than it probably was. Rich caramel skin, glowing golden beneath the stadium lights and deepening beautifully in the shadows.
Full lips, and a small crease that appeared beside his mouth whenever he smiled.

And he smiled often—with an easy warmth that made Michael feel noticed even in a crowded room.
It was the kind of smile that reached his eyes and softened his whole expression, the kind that made something in Michael’s chest loosen before he even realized he was smiling back.

Michael scratched the back of his neck again. “He has curly hair.”
“How curly?”
Michael laughed. “Very.”
“Like this?”

Mini Michael made a ridiculous gesture around his own head with both hands, spreading his fingers wildly through the air. His sweater sleeves slid down over his wrists.

“Yeah, like that.”
“And?”
“Brown eyes and his skin is golden like honey.” Michael added.

Mini Michael nodded, apparently satisfied with this description.
He dipped his spoon into the mug and stirred the hot chocolate, making the marshmallows bump gently against one another.

“Is he pretty?” The boy stared back with absolutely no shame.
Michael’s ears went slightly pink. “Yes.”
“Very?”
Michael rubbed his face, feeling the heat spread across his cheeks. “Yes.”
Mini Michael smiled, pleased with the answer. “Do you like him?”
Michael looked down, smile became smaller, warmer. “Yeah.” His voice softened. “I really like him.”

Mini Michael took another sip of chocolate.
“Do you love him?”

The question caught him off guard.
There was something so innocent about it.
No teasing, no hidden meaning.
Just a seven-year-old asking whether the person his future self loved was someone he genuinely liked.

The kitchen seemed to grow quieter around them.
Michael smiled. “I do.”
The boy nodded as though this was important information that had now been properly filed away.

“Can I see him?”
Michael blinked. “What?”
“Jamal.”
“You want to see him?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s your boyfriend.”
Michael laughed, shaking his head. “You’re very demanding.”
“I want to see him.”
Michael sighed, though he was still smiling.
“Fine.”

He pulled his phone out of his pocket.
The screen lit his fingers white as he unlocked it, and the sudden glow reflected faintly in his eyes.
Mini Michael immediately leaned across the island, his stool scraping softly against the floor.

“What are you doing?”
“Looking for a picture.”
“Do you have lots?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
Michael paused. “Because he’s my boyfriend.”
Mini Michael nodded. “Right.”

Michael scrolled through his camera roll.
There were pictures of football, training sessions, matches, teammates, and a few blurry photographs of food, all taken too quickly and under terrible lighting.
He passed several group photos, a picture of a muddy pair of boots, and one of the stadium lights glowing against a dark evening sky.

Then he found one.
It was Jamal sitting on the grass after training, still wearing his Bayern kit.
His curls were slightly damp, dark strands clinging to his forehead.
The green grass beneath him was flattened in places, and the late afternoon sun warmed the edges of his shoulders.
A few blades of grass were stuck to one knee.
Jamal was looking up at Michael from where he sat, smiling at him with those brown eyes.
Michael turned the phone around. “Here.”

Mini Michael leaned closer, the faint scent of chocolate and sugar followed him as he moved, and his chin nearly touched the edge of the island.
He looked at the picture and his eyes widened. “Oh.”
Michael watched his face. “What?”
“He’s beautiful, more than Rose and Ashley.”

Michael’s cheeks immediately went warm and laughed loudly.
Mini Michael looked at him, then back at the phone. “He has really nice eyes.”
“Yeah.”
“And he’s your boyfriend?”
“Yeah.”

Mini Michael looked back at the photograph, studying it with the seriousness of someone examining an important document.
Then he looked at Michael, and then back at the photograph again.

“How did you get him?”
Michael burst out laughing. “What kind of question is that?”
“Did you ask him?”
“Eventually.”
“Did he say yes?”
“Eventually.”
“Did you kiss him?”
Michael nearly dropped his phone. “Okay!”

Mini Michael burst into giggles, his laughter bright and bubbling. He leaned so far forward that Michael instinctively reached out to steady the mug before it tipped over.

“You did!”
Michael covered his face with one hand. “You ask too many questions.”
“How many times?”
Michael looked at him through his fingers. “I’m not answering that.”
“More than once.” Mini Michael added grinning, delighted by the subtle confirmation.

“And did you tell him you love him?” He continued.
Michael’s expression softened again. “Yeah.”
“When?”

Michael thought about it.
The roar of the stadium came back to him: the sharp smell of grass and victory, the pounding of his own heart beneath his ribs. The floodlights shining against the darkening sky.
Jamal’s hands gripping the back of his neck, warm and steady, while the noise around them seemed to disappear.

“After a really important match.”
“Did he say it back?”
Michael smiled. “He did.”
Mini Michael nodded, than he looked at the photograph one more time. “He looks like he makes you happy.”

Michael went quiet.
For a moment, he just looked at the little boy sitting across from him; at the small fingers curled around the mug, at the oversized sweater slipping over his wrists.
He looked so young, so open and certain in the way only children could be.

Then Michael glanced at the picture. “Yeah,” he said. “He does.”
Mini Michael smiled. “Good.”

Then he picked up another marshmallow from the plastic bag.
Michael immediately pointed at him. “Hey.”
“What?”
“That was eleven.”
The boy froze, the marshmallow pinched between his fingers. “You counted?”
“I put ten in.”
“Maybe one multiplied.”
Michael stared at him. “You are absolutely unbelievable.”

Mini Michael popped the marshmallow into his mouth.
It dissolved against his tongue, sweet and soft, leaving a pale smear of sugar on his upper lip. “Maybe I’m hungry.”
Michael shook his head, laughing.

The conversation was interrupted by the soft scrape of a key turning in the lock.
Michael looked up so quickly that his shoulder brushed against the cupboard behind him.
A moment earlier, the kitchen had felt warm and ordinary, filled with the smell of coffee, the faint sweetness of cocoa, and the quiet murmur of the refrigerator.
Now the room seemed to hold its breath around him.

He froze with one hand still resting on the counter.
Across from him, Mini Michael looked up too.
His fingers tightened around the edge of the stool, and his bare feet swung once beneath it before going still.

From the hallway came the faint jingle of keys, followed by the muted thud of the front door closing.
A thin draft slipped into the apartment, carrying the damp, metallic scent of the street and the cold air that had gathered outside.
Michael heard the familiar rustle of a jacket, the quiet movement of someone setting something down, and then footsteps approaching along the narrow hallway.

A voice drifted toward them. “Mike, I’m home!”
Michael’s eyes widened. “Oh.”
Mini Michael turned toward him, his expression suddenly alert. “Who is it?”

Michael barely had time to answer, Jamal appeared in the kitchen doorway.
He was dressed casually, wearing a dark hoodie and loose trousers that brushed against his trainers.
One hand still held his keys, which gave a soft metallic chime as he took two steps into the room.
His cheeks were faintly pink from the cold outside.
His eyes immediately landed on the child sitting on the kitchen stool.

The silence that followed seemed to stretch between them.
Behind Jamal, the hallway remained dim and cool, while the room glowed with the warmer yellow light above the counter.

Jamal blinked once, Michael stared at him.
Jamal looked at the child, than at Michael.
Then back at the child.

“Michael?”
“Yes?”
Jamal slowly lifted one hand and pointed, as though he needed to make certain that the boy was actually there. “Why is there a child in the kitchen?”
Michael opened his mouth. “That’s—”
The little boy turned around on the stool.

Jamal’s expression changed.
He stared at the child’s eyes first, then at his nose, his round cheeks, and the unmistakable shape of his face.
The resemblance was impossible to miss.
It was Michael, only smaller and softer, with the same curious gaze and the same slight crease between his eyebrows when he was trying to understand something.

Jamal’s mouth fell open. “Wait—“
Michael nodded. “Yeah.”
“No, seriously, what—“
“Yeah.”

Jamal took another step forward.
The rubber soles of his trainers scratched against the floor.
He crouched slightly, as if getting closer might somehow make the impossible image disappear or reveal itself as a trick.
The boy continued looking back at him, completely calm.

Jamal’s eyebrows lifted. “Oh my God.”
Michael rubbed the back of his neck, feeling heat rise beneath his skin. “Apparently that’s me when I was seven.”

Jamal looked at Michael, than at Mini Michael. Then back at Michael.
“I leave you alone for one morning.”
“I know.”
“And you somehow find yourself?”
Michael gave a helpless little shrug.

Before Jamal could say something else, Mini Michael slid off the stool.
His bare feet touched the cool floor with two soft taps. He stood there for a moment, small and serious, then began walking toward him.
Jamal straightened instinctively, the keys shifted in his hand, making another quiet metallic sound.

The boy stopped directly in front of him.
His gaze moved slowly over Jamal’s face, taking in his curls, his eyes, the shape of his mouth, and the faint flush still lingering across his cheeks from the cold.

Jamal glanced at Michael, slightly embarrassed by the intensity of the inspection. “Is he always this intense?”
Michael laughed, the sound escaping before he could stop it. “Apparently.”

Mini Michael stepped a little closer.
Jamal looked down at him, unsure whether he should offer his hand or simply wait. “Hi, I’m Jamal.”

The boy didn’t answer immediately.
He continued studying Jamal with complete concentration, his small face solemn and thoughtful, as though he were making an important decision.
Then, with absolute sincerity, he said: “You’re beautiful.”
Jamal blinked, Michael’s eyes widened.

Mini Michael continued before either of them could recover. “You look like a prince.”

Jamal’s mouth opened, nothing came out.
Michael immediately covered his face with one hand, his palm warm against his cheek.
“Oh my God.”
Jamal looked at him, still visibly stunned. “Did he just—”
“Yes.”

Jamal looked back at the little boy.
Mini Michael was completely unfazed by the reaction.
He simply stood there, waiting patiently, as though he had made an ordinary observation.

Jamal lowered himself carefully until they were eye to eye.
The fabric of his hoodie creased at his knees, and one of his keys pressed lightly into his palm as he shifted his grip. “Thank you.”
The boy nodded. “You’re welcome.”

Jamal smiled.
The expression softened his whole face.
The tension in his shoulders eased, and the corners of his eyes creased slightly.

Mini Michael’s attention immediately shifted to his mouth. “I like your smile.”
Jamal touched his lips with one finger. “Oh? Thanks.”
“Does Michael like it?”

Michael nearly choked, Jamal turned his head toward him.
Michael’s face was already turning red.
The heat spread from his neck to his ears, and he suddenly became very aware of everything around him: the warmth of the kitchen, the smell of coffee lingering in the air, the faint pressure of the counter against his hip, and the little boy watching him with open expectation.

“Michael?”
“I—”
Jamal’s smile widened. “You like my smile?”
Michael cleared his throat, he looked anywhere but at Jamal, though there was nowhere in the room that felt safe from the question. “Yes.”
Mini Michael looked between them, than he smiled. “You really like each other.”

Neither of them answered.
Jamal’s expression softened, and Michael looked at him for a second longer than necessary.
There was a familiar warmth in Jamal’s eyes, the kind that always made Michael forget what he had intended to say.

Mini Michael noticed.
He looked at Jamal again, then tilted his head slightly. “So, you’re my boyfriend?”

Jamal’s eyebrows shot up, he glanced at Michael, who looked as though he wanted the floor to open beneath him. “Apparently.”
Michael groaned. “Please don’t encourage him.”

Jamal laughed, the sound low and sweet. He shifted his keys into one hand and held out the other. “Nice to meet you, little one.”

Mini Michael looked at the offered hand.
Then he took it and shook it solemnly, his small fingers disappearing inside Jamal’s larger hands.
The gesture was so serious that Jamal’s smile softened even further.

“Michael showed me your picture.”

Jamal looked at Michael.
Michael immediately looked away, suddenly fascinated by a tiny mark along the edge of the counter.

“You showed him a picture of me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He wanted to see you.”

Jamal’s smile became impossibly soft.
He looked back at the little boy, still holding his hand. His thumb brushed gently over the child’s knuckles, careful and almost absent-mindedly affectionate.
“Well.” He paused, as though choosing his words. “I’m glad I got to meet you in person then.”

Mini Michael nodded.
For a moment, he seemed satisfied. Then he looked at Jamal’s face one more time, studying him with the same attention as before.
“You’re even prettier in real life.”

Jamal laughed, completely caught off guard.
The sound echoed softly through the kitchen, and he briefly lowered his head as though he needed a moment to recover.

Michael groaned into his hands. “Okay, that’s enough.”
Mini Michael looked at him innocently. “What?”
“You’re embarrassing me.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re talking about my boyfriend like he’s royalty.”

The boy looked at Jamal, than back at Michael. “He really looks like a prince.”

Michael sighed, though there was no real irritation in it.
Jamal was still smiling.
The sweetness of it lingered in his eyes, in the slight flush across his cheeks, and in the way his fingers remained gently wrapped around the boy’s hand.
He looked both amused and touched, as though he had no idea what to do with the strange, flattering sincerity of a seven-year-old version of Michael.

Michael watched him, unable to stop himself from smiling too, and judging by the expression on Jamal’s face, he was going to remember this for the rest of his life.

Babysitting a child had seemed much easier in Michael’s head, that was the first thing he had learned.
The second was that babysitting himself was considerably worse.

Seven-year-old Michael had been quiet for approximately twenty minutes.
At first, he had sat on one of chairs in the living room, watching Michael scroll through his phone.
He had answered every question with a shrug or a single word, and Michael had started to believe that perhaps the afternoon would be manageable after all.

Then the boy had discovered that Jamal was fun and that had been the end of peace.

“I want to play football!”
Michael looked up from his phone. “No.”

Mini Michael stared at him, his expression already beginning to harden with the stubborn determination of someone who had no intention of accepting that answer.
“Why?”
“Because we can’t just go outside.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re footballers.”

The boy frowned, apparently considering this as if Michael had presented him with a complicated tactical problem. “So?”
Michael sighed and set his phone down on the table. “So people in Munich know us.”
“So?”
“If they see us walking around with a random seven-year-old, what do you think they’re going to say?”
Mini Michael thought about it for a moment.
“That you have a child?”
Michael’s head snapped toward him. “What?!”

Jamal burst out laughing from the kitchen. His voice bounced off the cabinets, loud enough to make Michael wince.
Michael pointed at him. “Don’t.”
Jamal was already grinning. “He’s got a point.”
“Jamal, you’re not helping.”
Jamal shrugged, completely unbothered.
“I’m just saying.”

Mini Michael tugged at Jamal’s sleeve, apparently deciding that Jamal was the more useful adult in the room. “Can we play, please?”

Jamal looked down at him, than at Michael.
Then back at the boy.
Something brightened in his expression.
“I have an idea.”
Michael immediately became suspicious.
“No.”
“You don’t even know what it is.”
“I know you.”

Jamal was already reaching for his jacket. The fabric rustled as he pulled it from the back of the chair and slipped one arm into the sleeve. “Come on.”
“Where?”
“You’ll see.”

Michael looked from Jamal to the child, then back again, neither of them appeared remotely interested in giving him more information.
With a resigned sigh, he grabbed his own jacket.

Twenty minutes later, Michael was standing beside a tiny football pitch tucked away in one of the quieter corners of Munich.
The air smelled faintly of damp pavement and cold concrete.
Somewhere beyond the pale buildings, the city moved in a steady rhythm: cars passing along the distant road, footsteps echoing briefly between the buildings, the occasional muted sound of a tram.
The late morning sun pressed gently against Michael’s skin, warm enough to soften the chill without quite making the day feel bright.

Jamal had been right, nobody came here.
There were no cameras, no fans, no crowds gathering behind the fence.
Just a small enclosed pitch, a pair of metal goals, the faint metallic scent of the goalposts, and sunlight spilling across the concrete in bright white patches.

Michael looked down.
Mini Michael was wearing one of his old Bayern shirts, it was absolutely enormous on him.

The red fabric hung from his narrow shoulders and nearly reached his knees. The long sleeves swallowed his hands, and the shirt shifted around his body whenever the breeze moved across the pitch.
The collar sat too loosely against his neck, and the bottom of the shirt fluttered around his thighs as he walked.
On the back was OLISE, 17.
Michael had rolled the sleeves three times, it hadn’t helped much.

Mini Michael turned around proudly, presenting the shirt as if he had just been handed a trophy. “Look.”
Michael smiled despite himself.
“Now it’s mine.” The boy continued.
“Apparently.”
Jamal laughed. “You look like you’re swimming in it.”
Mini Michael looked down at himself, then lifted his chin. “I look cool.”
“You do,” Jamal said.

They started with a simple passing drill.
The ball made a soft, rhythmic thud against their shoes.
Jamal passed to Michael, Michael passed to Mini Michael, and the boy controlled it perfectly.
The ball settled beneath his foot as if it belonged there, stopping cleanly without rolling away.

Michael’s eyebrows lifted.
Jamal noticed. “Oh.”
Michael glanced at him. “Yeah.”
Mini Michael immediately grinned. “See?”
“Don’t get cocky.”
“I just played.”
“With an attitude.”

The boy passed the ball back.
Michael returned it to Jamal, who sent it back to him.
Michael passed to Mini Michael again, and the rhythm continued: Jamal, Michael, Mini Michael, then back around.

At first, they took their time.
The ball rolled slowly over the rough surface, tapping against their shoes in a steady pattern.
But Mini Michael quickly grew impatient with the pace.
He began moving faster, taking the ball with one touch and sending it on with the next.

One touch, two touches.
Move, pass.
The ball skimmed over the concrete, and their shoes struck against it in a quicker, sharper rhythm.
Mini Michael started laughing, then he started talking.

“Michael, you’re slow.”
Michael stopped and looked at him. “What?”
“You were slow.”
Jamal started laughing. “He’s right.”
Michael turned toward him. “Whose side are you on?”
“His.”
“Of course.”
Mini Michael pointed at Michael’s head. “And your hair is funny.”
Michael stared at him. “My hair is funny?”
“Yeah.”
Jamal was practically doubled over, one hand braced against his knee as he tried to catch his breath.
“Don’t laugh.” Michael rolled his eyes.
“I can’t help it.”

Mini Michael took the ball again.
He shifted his weight to one side, waited until Michael stepped forward, and then tapped it neatly between his feet.
The ball slipped through with a quick, clean touch.

Michael froze.
The boy gasped dramatically, throwing both hands into the air. “Nutmeg!”
Jamal burst out laughing.

Michael looked down at the ball, then at the child. “Did you just nutmeg me?”
Mini Michael was already running away, his oversized shirt flapping around his legs.
“Yes!”
Michael chased him. “Come back here!”

Mini Michael was laughing so hard he could barely run.
His shoes slapped against the concrete, and the sound of his laughter carried across the empty pitch.
He kept glancing over his shoulder, which made him slower, but he still managed to stay just far enough ahead to make Michael work for it.

Jamal was laughing even harder. “Mike, he’s seven!”
“I don’t care!”
“You can’t tackle yourself!”
“Watch me!”

Michael finally caught up to him near the edge of the pitch and scooped him up around the waist.
Mini Michael laughed, kicking his legs and twisting in his arms while Michael carried him a few steps away from the ball.
“Got you.”
“That doesn’t count! You cheated!”

Jamal retrieved the ball and tossed it lightly toward them. “Are we playing or arguing?”
“Playing!” mini Michael shouted.
Michael set him down still laughing. “No more nutmegs.”
Mini Michael gave him an innocent look.
“I can’t promise that.”

They kept playing.
For the next half hour, the three of them became nothing more complicated than three footballers on a tiny pitch.

The sun climbed higher, and heat gathered beneath Michael’s shirt.
Sweat dampened the back of his neck, and the concrete grew warmer beneath their shoes.
The ball kept rolling, stopping, and rolling again while their voices mixed with the distant sound of traffic.

Mini Michael celebrated every successful pass as if it were a goal and criticized every mistake Michael made.
“Bad pass.”
“You missed.”
“Jamal is better.”

Michael eventually put his hands on his hips. “I am literally the adult here.”
Mini Michael shrugged. “Doesn’t make you better.”
Jamal nearly dropped the ball from laughing.
Michael looked at him. “You are enjoying this far too much.”
Jamal smiled. “A lot.”

Eventually, after another few minutes of running, Michael walked toward the fence and grabbed the bottle of water he had left there.
The plastic crackled beneath his fingers as he twisted off the cap.

The water was cold, and it slid down his throat in a soothing rush.
He lowered the bottle, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Jamal and mini Michael were still playing.
The boy was trying to steal the ball from Jamal, darting from side to side in the oversized red shirt.
The fabric bounced around his frame with every movement, and his sleeves had slipped down over his hands again.
Jamal was deliberately making it difficult: he kept shifting the ball just out of reach, laughing whenever Mini Michael nearly managed to take it.
The boy lunged once. Missed, tried again.
Jamal moved the ball away.

Mini Michael groaned dramatically. “Jam!”
“Almost.”
“I had it!”
“You didn’t.”

Jamal laughed and finally let him take the ball.
Mini Michael stared at it for half a second, as if he couldn’t believe Jamal had actually surrendered possession.
Then he celebrated as if he had just scored in a Champions League final, throwing both arms into the air.
Jamal followed, shouting at the top of his voice. “Goal!”
Mini Michael screamed, the sound was bright and wild, filling the little pitch and bouncing off the surrounding walls.

Michael smiled and something inside his chest shifted.
It was so small at first that he almost didn’t notice it; a warmth beneath his ribs, a sudden softness that had nothing to do with the sun.

Jamal crouched down, laughing, while Mini Michael threw his arms around him.
The boy’s cheek pressed against Jamal’s shoulder, and Jamal wrapped him up easily, one hand settling protectively between his shoulder blades.

The sight struck Michael with a tenderness so sudden it almost hurt.
Jamal looked completely at home like that.
Happy, patient.
Laughing with a child tucked against him as if there were nowhere else he needed to be.

Michael’s chest tightened, he wanted to step closer.
The impulse came before he could stop it: to join them, to put an arm around Jamal, to let the three of them remain in that small circle of warmth for a little longer.
And suddenly he saw something that wasn’t there.

Jamal older, himself older.
A little boy between them.

A child running across the grass with a tiny football tucked beneath his arm, his hair blowing across his forehead and his shoes flashing white against the green.
Jamal holding his hand, laughing as the boy tried to pull him toward the goal.
Michael carrying the child’s jacket, already knowing Jamal would forget it somewhere before the day was over.

A stadium.
A child sitting in the stands, wearing a Bayern shirt that was far too big, screaming their names whenever they touched the ball. Small hands gripping the railing, a voice breaking with excitement.
Jamal looking up, waving, Michael pretending not to be distracted by the sight of them.
Confetti caught in Jamal’s hair, victories celebrated with a child inside the trophy they had won.

Family holidays, sunlight, airport bags.
Messy hotel breakfasts with spilled juice and crumbs scattered across the table.
A little voice asking “Dad Jamal, can we go to the beach again?”

Drawings stuck to the refrigerator, tiny socks disappearing in the laundry, toys appearing in rooms where they have absolutely no business being.
Christmas mornings with wrapping paper covering the floor, birthday cakes with uneven icing.

Family photographs where someone is always looking away, small hands reaching for theirs as they walk through a crowded place.
A little hand wrapping around his finger. “Dad Michael, can you read me this story again?”

School mornings with a backpack that somehow contains everything except the thing he actually needs, a child falling asleep halfway through a film, his head slipping against Jamal’s shoulder, while Michael quietly lowers the volume.

A child learning to kick a ball while Jamal laughed and Michael pretended not to be terrified of scraped knees.
Jamal turning toward him with that same bright, helpless smile.
Michael looking at both of them and feeling, with terrifying certainty, that this was where he belonged.

What if he wanted it?
Family, family, family.

Michael nearly choked on his water.
No, absolutely not. Stop.

He looked at Jamal: at the softness still lingering in his expression, at the way his hand remained on mini Michael’s back, steady and protective.

Then Michael looked away before Jamal could catch him staring. “Stop.”
Jamal glanced over. “You’re alright?”
“All good.”

Michael shook his head quickly, he took another drink.
The water was cold against his lips, but his heart was beating strangely fast.

A family with Jamal, somewhere in the future.
The thought settled in him with an ache that felt dangerously close to hope.

No.
Stop.
Michael closed his eyes for half a second.
Stop it.

He opened them again and Jamal was still smiling at him.
Mini Michael had pulled away from him and was now waving frantically from the middle of the pitch. “Michael! Come back!”
Michael shook his head again. “Coming.”

He put the bottle down and pushed away from the fence.
Whatever that strange little future had been, whatever his brain had decided to show him for absolutely no reason, he wasn’t thinking about it. Not now.

He jogged back onto the pitch.
Mini Michael immediately pointed at him.
“You’re losing.”
Michael raised an eyebrow. “Am I?”
“Yes.”
Jamal smiled. “He’s been waiting to tell you that.”
Michael huffed. “Fine.” He picked up the ball and rolled it beneath his foot. “Let’s play.”

Mini Michael grinned and took his position, Jamal moved beside him.
Then the ball was rolling again, and the three of them started running.

By the time they left the pitch, seven-year-old Michael was exhausted—completely, utterly exhausted.

Michael’s shirt clung to his back, and his cheeks were flushed from running.
For hours, he had sprinted across the pitch, shouted at the top of his lungs, stolen the ball, insulted Michael’s football skills, and declared Jamal the best player in the world at least six times.
Now, however, he was silent.

The city hummed around them.
Distant traffic rolled along the main road, the evening light stretched their shadows across the sidewalk, long and thin, while the warmth of the day slowly gave way to cooler air.

They had barely made it halfway back to the apartment when the boy’s little steps began to slow.

Michael noticed first.
He glanced down and saw the child’s shoulders dropping, his arms hanging more loosely at his sides. “You tired?”
“No.” The answer came immediately, sharp and automatic.

Michael looked down at him as Mini Michael yawned, his nose wrinkling and his eyes turning glossy.
For a moment, he looked too sleepy even to pretend otherwise.

Jamal laughed softly. “Very convincing.”
“I’m not.”
“You just yawned.”
“No.”

Michael smiled, unable to keep the amusement from his voice. “Come here.”
“I can walk.”
“I know.”
Michael crouched down, opening his arms.
“Come here anyway.”

The boy hesitated for approximately two seconds before climbing into them.
He wrapped his arms around Michael’s neck with determination, as though accepting the lift had been his idea all along.

Michael stood, adjusting him carefully against his chest.
The child was warm from the afternoon, his skin carrying the faint scent of grass and sun warmed cotton. His oversized Bayern shirt bunched beneath Michael’s arm, the number 17 almost completely hidden in the folds of fabric.
The boy’s head settled against Michael’s shoulder, one small hand curled into the fabric at the back of Michael’s shirt.
Within minutes, he was asleep.

Michael looked down at him as they continued along the street.
Sleep had completely transformed his face. The cheeky grin was gone, so were the endless questions and mischievous eyes. Without them, smaller and more vulnerable—a little boy warm and heavy in Michael’s arms, breathing softly against his neck.

Each exhale brushed Michael’s skin in a slow, even rhythm. With every step, the child’s weight settled more deeply against his chest, his body relaxing completely now that he no longer had to keep himself awake.

Michael’s expression softened.
Jamal walked beside him with his hands tucked into his pockets, his footsteps rhythmic.
For a while, neither of them spoke.

Then Jamal glanced at the child. “He really is you.”
Michael looked down at him. “Unfortunately.”
“Especially the attitude.”
“That part is definitely yours to blame.”
“My fault?”
“You encouraged him.”
“I did not.”
“You called him your side.”
Jamal laughed quietly, the sound warm in the cool evening air. “Okay, maybe a little.”

Michael adjusted the boy slightly, shifting one arm beneath his legs to keep him secure.
Mini Michael stirred.
The little boy sighed in his sleep, a soft sound that vibrated against Michael’s shoulder. His breath warmed the side of Michael’s neck as he tucked his face further into the hollow beneath Michael’s jaw.
Jamal looked at them fondly. “He sleeps exactly like you do.”

They walked a few more steps.
The street changed beneath their feet, from rough concrete to smooth stone near the entrance of the building.
Ahead, warm hallway lights glowed through the glass doors, reflecting faintly in the darkening windows.
Somewhere above them, a door closed, followed by the muffled sound of someone moving around inside an apartment.

Then Jamal’s expression became thoughtful. “So, how do you think he got here?”
Michael sighed, his gaze fixed on the entrance. “I have absolutely no idea.”
“Did he say anything?”
“Nothing useful.”
“Of course.”
“He said he was in his room.”
“And then?”
“He doesn’t remember.”
Jamal nodded slowly, considering that.

Michael looked ahead, feeling the boy’s weight shift gently with every step. “I woke up because I heard something fall,” he said. “Then I found him playing with my trophy.”
Jamal smiled. “Very on brand.”
“He almost dropped it.”
Jamal winced. “Okay, that’s terrifying.”
“I nearly had a heart attack.”
Then Jamal spoke again. “Do you think he’ll disappear?”

Michael looked down at the sleeping child.
His lashes rested against his cheeks.
A tiny crease remained between his brows, as if even his dreams were demanding answers.

“I don’t know.”
“What if he doesn’t?”

Michael’s expression changed.
That possibility had been sitting quietly at the back of his mind since morning, growing heavier each time he looked at the boy.
He had tried not to think about it while they were at the pitch.
It had been easier to focus on the game, on Jamal’s teasing, on keeping the child occupied.
But now the day was ending, and the question had nowhere left to hide.

He hadn’t wanted to say it out loud. “What are we supposed to do with a seven-year-old version of me?”
Jamal smiled faintly. “Feed him.”
“He’s already eaten half the kitchen.”
“Keep him entertained.”
“He has unlimited energy.”
“Apparently.”
“Hide the trophies.”
Jamal laughed. “Definitely hide the trophies.”

Michael smiled, but the amusement faded quickly, his expression becoming serious again. “But we need to get him back.”
“Yeah.”
“He belongs in his time.”

Jamal nodded, his face growing more thoughtful. “We’ll figure it out.”
Michael looked at him. “How?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“That’s reassuring.”
Jamal smiled. “We can start with the obvious things.”
“Which are?”
“Trying to help him remember what happened.”
Michael thought about it, mentally sorting through the fragments of the boy’s earlier explanations.

“What he was doing, where he was before he appeared.”
“Maybe there was something unusual.”
“Maybe.”
“And if that doesn’t work?”
Jamal shrugged. “We call someone.”
“Who?”
Jamal looked at him. “Who do you think knows about time travel?”
Michael stared at him. “Jamu.”
“What?”
“Nobody. Unless you’ve secretly been researching quantum physics.”
“Right.”

They both laughed quietly, careful not to wake the boy.
Michael felt the sound vibrate faintly through the child’s body, but Mini Michael only shifted closer, his nose brushing against Michael’s neck before he settled again.

Then Jamal looked at the child sleeping against Michael’s chest. “At least he seems happy.”

Michael followed his gaze.
The boy’s mouth had fallen slightly open. His breathing remained soft and steady, and his body was completely relaxed now. The tension he had carried earlier—if there had been any—had disappeared beneath the comfort of sleep.

“He does.” A tiny smile appeared on Michael’s face. “And he likes you.”
“I noticed.”
“Very quickly.”
Jamal smiled. “He’s got good taste.”
Michael rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell him that.”
“Why?”
“He’ll become unbearable.”
“He already is.”

Michael laughed under his breath, careful not to move too much.
The sound seemed to settle somewhere between them, warm and familiar despite the strange circumstances surrounding them.

When they reached the entrance to the building, Jamal pushed the door open.
Warm air spilled into the hallway, carrying the faint smell of polished floors, old radiator heat, and someone’s dinner from upstairs.
The glass door swung slowly behind them, and the sounds of the street softened as they stepped inside.

Michael shifted the boy carefully in his arms, supporting his back and adjusting his legs so that his head rested more comfortably against his shoulder.

Mini Michael didn’t wake.
His hair tickled Michael’s jaw whenever he breathed, and one small hand stayed tangled in the fabric of Michael’s shirt.

Jamal held the door for them.
Carefully, Michael lowered the sleeping boy onto the couch.
He arranged him, tucked a folded blanket beneath his head, and pulled another one over his small body.
Mini Michael stirred once, his fingers searching sleepily for something to hold, so Michael let him curl them around the edge of his shirt before gently easing away.
The boy settled again, breathing softly against the cushions.

Michael remained beside the sofa for a moment, watching him sleep.
Jamal noticed the change in his expression.
“You okay?”
Michael nodded, though the answer took him a moment. “Yeah.”

Before Michael could say anything else, Jamal stepped closer and drew him into a quiet embrace.
One arm settled around Michael’s shoulders, the other around his back.
His hand moved slowly between Michael’s shoulder blades in a steady, reassuring rhythm.
Michael let himself lean into him.
Little by little, the tension eased from his shoulders, and the tightness in his chest began to loosen.

Jamal held him without saying anything, giving him time to breathe and allowing the silence to settle around them.
Then he lifted a hand to Michael’s face, turning him gently toward him.

Their eyes met for a brief moment before Jamal leaned in and kissed him.
It was slow and tender, with a hint of reassurance beneath it.
Michael closed his eyes, letting himself sink into it as Jamal’s lips moved softly against his.
When Jamal finally pulled back, he stayed close, their foreheads nearly touching and their breaths mingling.

“We will find a way,” Jamal whispered.
Michael opened his eyes and looked at him.
“You don’t know that.”
“No.” Jamal smiled softly, his hand still resting against Michael’s back. “But we’ll figure it out.”

Michael held his gaze for a moment.
The worry was still there, and so were the unanswered questions, but they no longer felt quite as heavy.
Then he smiled back. “Okay.”

After an hour, Mini Michael was awake again.
Unfortunately, the shower had restored roughly ninety percent of his energy.
The remaining ten percent had apparently been waiting for the moment he pulled on Michael’s clothes.

Michael had given him a pair of short sweatpants and one of his old training shirts. The fabric hung from his narrow shoulders, heavy and loose, with the hem brushing his thighs. The cotton still carried the faint scent of detergent and Michael’s cologne. The sleeves covered most of his hands, and the waistband had to be folded five times before the sweatpants stayed in place.

Mini Michael stood in front of the mirror, studying his reflection.
His damp hair curled against his forehead, and water still glistened at the tips, darkening them. He tugged at the oversized sleeves, then turned slightly from side to side, examining the way the clothes moved around him.

“I look like you.”

Michael, standing behind him, raised an eyebrow.
In the mirror, the resemblance was unsettling. They had the same eyes and the same shape of mouth. Even the slight crease that appeared between their brows when they were concentrating was identical. Only the proportions were different.

“You look like you’ve stolen my clothes.”
“They’re mine now.”
“You’re seven.”
“So?”

Jamal laughed from the bathroom, his voice warm.
Michael sighed, though the corner of his mouth lifted despite himself. “This is going to be a long night.”

They eventually settled in the living room. The lamps cast pools of amber light across the walls, leaving the corners dim and shadowed.
The air still smelled faintly of soap and warm fabric, and the apartment had begun to cool after the shower.
Outside, the city had gone quiet, reduced to the distant hiss of tyres and the occasional muted sound of a siren several streets away.

Mini Michael sat cross-legged on the carpet, the oversized shirt gathered around him like a blanket.
His bare feet rested against the soft fibers, and every so often his toes curled into the carpet without him seeming to notice.
Michael and Jamal sat on the sofa opposite him.

The Champions League Man of the Match trophy sat on the coffee table between them, its silver surface catching the lamplight.
The engraved details gleamed whenever someone moved.
It looked impressive, almost ceremonial, but now that they were examining it closely, it seemed no different from any other piece of metal.

Michael looked at it, then at Jamal. “Okay.”
Jamal nodded. “Let’s start with the trophy.”
Mini Michael leaned forward slightly, his attention fixed on the silver cup. “You think that’s how I got here?”
“We don’t know.”

Michael reached for it.
The metal was cool beneath his fingers, smooth and solid, with a faint weight that settled into his palm. He turned it over, checking the base and the engraved plate, as if some hidden mechanism might reveal itself if he looked closely enough.

“That’s the last thing you were touching before we found you.”
Mini Michael nodded.
“So maybe—“ Michael placed it carefully on the carpet in front of him. “Touch it.”

Mini Michael placed both hands around the trophy. His fingers barely reached across the base, and the sleeves of Michael’s shirt slipped over his knuckles as he tightened his grip.
Nothing happened.
The room remained still, the lamp beside the sofa gave a soft electrical buzz.
They waited, still nothing.
Michael glanced at Jamal.

Mini Michael looked down at the trophy.
“Is it supposed to do something?”
“I don’t know.”
Michael gently shifted it closer. “Maybe hold it.”

The boy lifted it into his lap.
The metal made a soft clink against the floor when he adjusted his grip, and the sound seemed strangely loud in the quiet room.
Nothing.

“Say something?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know.”

Mini Michael thought seriously.
His eyebrows drew together, and he stared at the trophy as if it might respond to the right words.
“Open sesame?”

Jamal covered his mouth, but a laugh escaped anyway.
Michael stared at him. “Don’t.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”

Mini Michael tried again, this time with more conviction. He sat up straighter and held the trophy firmly against his chest.
“Take me home?”

The words hung in the room.
Nothing changed.
No flash of light appeared, no sound came from the metal.
The apartment did not shift around them.

Michael exhaled through his nose. “Okay.”
He took it back and set it beside him. “So it’s not the trophy.”
Mini Michael shrugged. “I told you.”
“You didn’t tell us anything.”
“I said I didn’t know.”

Michael leaned back into the sofa, the leather creaked beneath him and he rubbed one hand over his face.
Jamal remained quiet for a moment, his gaze fixed on the boy.
He seemed to be considering not only what Mini Michael had said, but also what he had avoided saying.

Then he spoke. “Maybe it wasn’t the object.”
Michael looked at him. “What else could it be?”
Jamal glanced toward the boy. “Maybe it’s what happened before.”
Michael’s expression changed.

Mini Michael had started worrying at the sleeve of the oversized shirt, twisting the fabric between his fingers until the seam pressed pale lines into his skin.
He had stopped looking at either of them and was now staring at the floor.

“What happened before?” Michael asked.
The boy shrugged.
Michael sat forward, the cushions shifting beneath him. “Think, please.”
Mini Michael looked up.

“Before you came here.”
“I don’t know.”
“Where were you?”
“At home.”
“What were you doing?”
“I came home from a match.”

Michael paused, something in the answer made him straighten.
Mini Michael thought harder.
His gaze drifted toward the dark window, where the glass reflected the room back at them: the sofa, the lamp, the trophy, and the small figure sitting on the carpet in clothes that belonged to someone else.

“I was playing football.”
Michael exchanged a look with Jamal.
“With who?”
The boy’s fingers stopped moving.
He looked down at his hands, studying the way the sleeves covered them. “Teammates. It was a friendly game.”

Michael’s face softened.
Mini Michael smiled too, but the expression faded almost immediately.
His eyes lowered, and the room seemed to grow quieter around him.

Michael watched his face. “Were you upset?”
The boy considered the question. His shoulders lifted slightly, then fell. “A little.”
Michael’s smile disappeared. “Why?”

Mini Michael picked at a loose thread on the sweatpants. The thread curled around his fingertip, and he pulled it free before letting it fall onto the carpet. “I lost.”
Michael nodded slowly. “Was it important?”
The boy shrugged. “To Dad.”

Michael’s eyes lowered.
He remembered the way children could measure the importance of a match by the adults watching from the sidelines, by the tone of the car ride home, by whether someone spoke about the game before they had even taken off their shoes.

Jamal looked at him patiently. “And to you?”
Mini Michael was quiet.
His breathing became slower, more deliberate, as if he were trying to decide whether the answer was safe to give.
Then he nodded. “Yeah.”

Michael leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “What happened?”
“I missed.”
“Missed what?”
“The goal.”
Michael’s chest tightened. “An easy one?”
The boy nodded. “Everyone said it was okay.”
Michael looked at him. “But?”
Mini Michael frowned. His lower lip trembled almost imperceptibly, and he pressed it between his teeth before continuing.
“But I wasn’t good.”

Jamal’s expression softened.
Michael didn’t speak.
He knew that if he interrupted too quickly, the boy might retreat into silence.

The boy continued, so quietly that Michael almost had to lean closer to hear him.
“I wanted to be good.”
Michael swallowed. “Good?”
The boy nodded again.

Silence spread through the room.
It wasn’t empty. It carried the weight of the boy’s confession, the memory of a missed goal, and all the things he had apparently been too young to explain at the time.

The trophy sat untouched beside Michael’s knee, its polished surface reflecting a distorted patch of lamplight.
Michael looked down at the carpet, something was beginning to connect.

He remembered being seven.
He remembered the sting of cold air in his lungs after running, the rough grass beneath his knees, and the hollow thud of the ball striking the post instead of the net. He remembered the way the sound had seemed to continue long after the ball had bounced away.

He remembered how every missed shot could feel enormous, as if the entire world had narrowed to that single mistake.
How adults could say “It’s okay,” in gentle voices and somehow make it worse, because you knew they were trying to protect you from the truth you had already decided for yourself.

He remembered the impossible distance between the player you were and the player you desperately wanted to become.

Michael looked at his younger self. “What did you think?”
Mini Michael shrugged. “I don’t remember.”
“Try.”

The boy frowned.
His eyes moved toward the window, toward the darkness beyond the glass.
For several seconds, he said nothing. His reflection hovered faintly over the night outside, making him look as though he were standing somewhere else entirely.

Then he said: “I thought—“
He stopped.

Michael waited.
Jamal did not move, and even the apartment seemed to hold its breath.

Mini Michael’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I thought maybe I’m never going to be good enough.”

Michael went completely still, Jamal’s eyes moved to him. Neither of them spoke.

Mini Michael looked embarrassed now.
His cheeks had turned faintly pink, and he lowered his head as if he had confessed to something forbidden. His hands disappeared inside the long sleeves.

“I don’t know.”
Michael slowly shook his head. “No.”
He continued slowly. “You were allowed to think that.”
Mini Michael watched him, uncertain.
Michael smiled gently. “You are seven.”
The boy nodded, though he still looked unconvinced.

Michael looked down at his hands.
He could see the faint marks left by the trophy’s base against his palm, but he barely felt them.

And suddenly, the entire thing made sense.
Not the physic, not the trophy.
That question: “Am I ever going to be good enough?”

Maybe that was all it had taken.
Maybe, somewhere inside that seven-year-old mind, he had wanted an answer badly enough to reach across time.

Just a proof.
Proof that the boy who had missed that goal wasn’t going to stay that boy forever.
Proof that one mistake would not become the definition of his life.
Proof that the disappointment on the drive home, the silence after the match, and the fear of having failed would eventually become something smaller than they felt in that moment.

Michael looked at Jamal. “I think I may know.”
Jamal’s voice was quiet. “What?”
“He didn’t come here because of the trophy.” Michael looked at Mini Michael. “He came here because he wanted to know.”
“Know what?”
Michael smiled sadly. “Who he’d become.”

Mini Michael frowned. “Did I?”
Michael nodded. “Maybe you didn’t even say it.”
The boy looked confused.
“You don’t have to.” Michael’s voice softened. “Sometimes you just want something badly enough.”
Jamal looked at him.

“And somehow—“ Michael glanced around the room: the dark windows, and the child sitting in clothes that were far too large for him. “the future answers.”

Mini Michael stared at him. “So I came here?”
“Maybe.”
“Because I was sad?”

Michael thought about it.
He looked at the boy’s small hands, the damp curls still clinging to his forehead, and the way he kept his shoulders slightly hunched as though he were bracing for another disappointment. “Maybe.”

“Can I go home?”
Michael’s expression softened immediately.
“Yes.”
“But how?”

Michael looked at Jamal, hoping he might have an answer. Jamal only gave a small shake of his head.
Then Michael looked back at the child.
“We don’t know yet.”

The boy’s face fell slightly.
His shoulders folded inward, and the oversized shirt slipped farther down one arm.
For a moment, he looked even smaller than before.

Michael immediately leaned forward. “But we’ll figure it out.”
Jamal nodded. “Together.”

Mini Michael looked between them.
His eyes moved from Michael to Jamal and back again, searching their faces for any sign that they were only saying it to make him feel better.

Michael’s throat tightened but smiled. “You were.”
Mini Michael looked up. “What?”
“You were good enough.”
The boy studied his face. “Really?”
Michael nodded. “Really.”

Mini Michael smiled.
This time, the expression stayed.
His eyes brightened, and the tension around his mouth eased.
For a moment, the heaviness left his face.

The air felt lighter.
The boy’s smile warmed the space between them.
Even the trophy seemed less like a clue and more like an ordinary object again, something that could sit on a table without carrying the weight of an impossible question.

They’ll find a way.